Play On
by Juniorstarcatcher
Summary: Charlie meets his match.


"Is it okay if we walk back, Captain?" Charlie asked his teacher.

He knew Welton's strict policy against students going unattended on school-sponsored trips (They had the most asinine rules for _everything_, it seemed), but he used Mr. Keating's momentary distraction to his advantage. The longer he could avoid the walls of school, the better. When Keating nodded his assent, and the boys grasped the opportunity like it was gold raining from the sky.

"C'mon, guys," Charlie said, urging his fellow Dead Poets to follow him down the street. The night was crisp, clear, and, though once filled with promise, now felt a bit empty with the sudden departure of their de facto leader. Nonetheless, Charlie sauntered ahead of the group, leading the boys from the bright lights of the theatre and into the lamp lit side streets.

"He was good. He was really good," Meeks said, hands in his pockets.

Charlie looked back at his friend and scoffed.

"Y'think we don't know that, Meeks? Of course he was good. He was better than good," he said in that singularly Charlie Dalton kind of way.

Knox kicked some snow with his booted foot and smiled with flickering hope.

"You think they'd ever let us do something like that at Welton?" he asked, his mind filled with possibility.

Pitts' face lit up as he snapped and pointed at his friends.

"Yeah. And we could get the girls to audition and come up to school for rehearsals."

Charlie rolled his eyes.

"It'd never happen," he said, smirk still firmly planted on his face as he continued down the dark street, "Nolan's too much of a tight wad. No girls at Welton, remember?"

He mentally cringed as he relived the memory of their headmaster punishing him for the phone call from God stunt. The boys around him instantly backed away from the idea.

"Ah, it's a stupid rule," Knox said, his mind wandering to Chris.

Pitts and Meeks nodded their agreement and each took their turn to give Charlie a hearty pat on the back. They continued to carve their path through residential neighborhoods, taking the long way to Main Street, which would eventually lead them back to school.

"Girls at Welton would be nifty, though," Pitts said, suddenly deflated.

The rest of the boys nodded their assent.

"Maybe if they were up at school and not in their natural habitat, your lightning bolt would work, Nuwanda," teased Knox, suddenly emboldened by thoughts of Chris.

Smirk firmly in place, Charlie shook his head at his friend.

"First of all, Knoxious: It's a virility symbol. Not a 'lightning bolt.'"

The boys snickered behind his back as he readjusted his jacket and stuck his chin out in a show of prideful confidence.

"And besides, the night's not over yet."

As if to prove his point, as they took the next turn, which brought them from the dim back streets to the bright lights of Main Street, a feminine voice struck the air, moving along with the snowy wind toward the gaggle of Welton boys.

"I have just as much right to be here as anyone else, sir," they heard.

For the briefest of moments, the boys stopped dead in their tracks and looked around at each other. Then, as Charlie broke into a triumphant smile, they sprinted around the corner faster than they had ever moved before. Charlie was the first to stop, effectively forcing the others to run into each other.

"Hey!" Meeks mumbled as his momentum running into Pitts threw him to the ground.

The other boys ignored him, though, and watched the scene unfold before them. The sight that greeted them was even more odd than they could have imagined. A young woman, no older than themselves, stood on the street corner, holding a guitar in one hand and clenching the other into a tight fist. Her face wasn't toward them, but the boys stole a long moment to take in the sight of her. She wore tight pants- the black ones that took the world by storm after Audrey Hepburn sported them in Funny Face, a vibrant orange sweater that was so thin Charlie could see just how tense her shoulders were beneath the fabric. Beneath a black beret, her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail which fell in loose curls past the base of her neck. The man across from her faced the boys, and they could see him seethe. He was a suit, no doubt about it, but a suit that the boys knew. Charlie recognized him as Jonathan Michaels, his father's long-time friend and client who frequented their family dinner table.

"Look, this is a public thoroughfare and I'm not going to let you harass passerby this way!" He managed to choke out through gritted teeth.

The boys looked from the arguing pair to the wall where the girl has set up a box marked "Donations welcome.". A small indentation had been made in the snow where she had been sitting and playing her guitar mere moments before.

"I'm not trying to harass anyone, sir. I'm just here to play guitar."

It all happened so quickly that no one even saw it coming when Charlie stepped forward to intervene, faux concern plastered across his face.

"What's the problem here, Mr. Michaels?" he asked, looking between the two as though trying to assess the situation.

The rest of the Dead Poets hung back, allowing Charlie to just be Charlie and grab control of the situation.

"Mr. Dalton, I'm sorry to see you under these circumstances," he began, "This young woman has been harassing people for money."

Charlie took another step forward, hands in his pockets as he strolled casually toward the center of the conflict.

"I wasn't harassing anybody, sir," the girl begged, trying to get the wealthy man before her to hear her case.

Once in the puddle of streetlight, Charlie finally got his first solid look at the young woman. She wasn't anything special to look at, but Charlie found himself smiling nonetheless. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright from the fight, drawing Charlie in. He then looked back at Mr. Michaels, noticing his black Ford idling by the curb, his aging wife hiding stalwartly in the safe darkness of the passenger seat.

"Y'know harassment is a serious crime, don't you?" Charlie began with a mockery of a stoic expression on his face, "That could get you-what?- ten, twelve years in a juvenile detention center. Right, Mr. Michaels?" Charlie asked, finally swiveling away from the girl and toward the older gentleman.

"Well, no, Mr. Dalton. Not necessarily-"

"Mr. Michaels," Charlie began warmly, trying to butter up the man as he did to all of his superiors, "You take your wife home. It's late. We'll take care of this," he vowed, patting the man on the back.

The older man and the young woman turned around toward the group of young men as though noticing their presence for the first time. The Dead Poets did their best to look sincere, nodding solemnly and shoving their hands in their pockets astutely. The older gentleman looked unsure, however, and looked nervously between the young woman and the young men. To make it convincing, Charlie grabbed the guitar from the young woman at his side. Finally, Mr. Michaels relented.

"Alright, Mr. Dalton. You say hello to your parents for me. You too, Mr. Overstreet," he said, stepping into his car and nodding at the boys.

"You have a good night, Mr. Michaels," Charlie said, laying his charm on thick.

As soon as the car disappeared around the corner, the boys swung into action.

"Fellas, you go ahead. I'll meet you," he said.

"C'mon, Nuwanda, you know we can't do that," said Pitts, but the rest of the group immediately mumbled a chorus of "Sure, Nuwanda," and began to shuffle off toward school. Knox even had the audacity to smile and wave at the young woman at Nuwanda's side. Meeks grabbed Pitts' arm and pulled him along as Charlie turned away from the girl for a moment to shout at Knox's retreating back.

"I'll catch up later! Tell Cameron not to wait up."

Knox threw a wave behind him, acknowledging his friends' request, but knowing full well that Cameron would not wait up for Charlie in a million years. But when Charlie turned back around, he saw the girl collecting her meager belongings.

"Where're you going?" he asked, arms crossed.

She looked up at him with large brown eyes after she scooped up her donations box.

"You're going to make me leave anyway, Nuwanda," she quipped, sarcastically picking out and stressing the nickname shouted by his friends.

He spread his arms wide and feigned confusion, a brief laugh falling between his lips.

"Well, who said I was going to do that?" he asked, taking a few steps toward her.

She quirked one eyebrow at him in confusion.

"You did. Just a minute ago."

He nodded, raising his eyebrows at her and shrugging.

"I had to get rid of him. He was more destructive that you were. And-" he said, smiling a genuine smile at her. Their eyes met, and a long moment of silence passed between them.

"If music be the food of love, play on," Charlie finally said, handing her guitar back with a smile.

She took it from him, their warm hands meeting for the briefest moment against the chilly winter's wind.

"So, should I call you Nuwanda or Shakespeare?" she asked, smirking up at him and she clutched her instrument to her chest.

He laughed.

"Charlie. Just Charlie," he said.

And for a moment, as she smiled and repeated the name, he was content. Nothing to prove to anyone. No act to put on. No false bravado. It was just Charlie Dalton and the girl with the guitar. And, as he ignored the sounds of the emergency vehicles peeling down the snow blanketed streets, her smile was all he needed.

In an hour, Mr. Keating would find him on the streets at her side, having seen the police car idling in front of Neil Perry's home, and the pair would rush to the school to confess the awful reality to the Dead Poets. But Charlie didn't know that then. So, he stole a few, brief moments of happiness and the young girl's phone number before his life would be irrevocably shattered.


End file.
